


The Trojan War Will Not Take Place

by Melo_Mapo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Army, BAMF Stiles, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Shield Maiden, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is Athens's last Victor, winner of the Persian war. So why is it that his scheming uncle, Senator Peter Hale, always manages to drag him to events his does not want to go to? </p><p>And how come he ends up with a wife who he not only did not want to begin with, but also seems very capable to kill him in his sleep? </p><p>A Roman/Greek/Viking AU with intrigues, gory fights, wolves, shield maidens and men in skirts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! As promised, here's the start of the kinda Greek AU promised. I have freely mixed Roman and Greek cultures here, as well as added to the mix some Viking mythology and lore, though they come way after in terms of time periods. 
> 
> But let's say the Greco-Roman Empire lasted longer in this world, because WEREWOLVES.

Derek is still covered in blood and fur, some of it his own, though now his injuries have healed. Deaton tried to make him leave, but he hasn’t budged, insisting on cleaning her wound himself, only allowing Deaton to sew it closed. Isaac will bring him some clean water, and maybe he will wash up then. But there is no way he will leave Stiles’s side. 

 

Sitting by her cot, watching her breathing shallowly, he wonders how a puny human like her managed to become so important in such a short time. Since there is not much else to do as he waits for her to wake up, he thinks back to the time they met, and to how she got under his pelt. 


	2. The Picking

Derek abhors his uncle. He came back from his last campaign yesterday, and already Peter has him participate in the event Derek hates above all: the Picking. 

Imperator Deucalion collects women, human and werewolf ones, from all the Empire. It is well known this harem is purely for show, as he is very much faithful to Kali, the exotic beauty he brought back from Persia years ago. It's not like he has a choice either: last he took another woman to bed, he found her slain on his doorstep the day after. 

Deucalion may be fierce and cruel, but he isn't stupid. The trophies in his harem are often valued hostages from newly conquered lands or enemy ones. Hostages are valuable only when alive. 

So every year, on the summer solstice, he gathers the politicians and generals in favor this season, and they all get to pick a new wife among the women in the harem. 

Peter got elected as Senator in the Agora, and Derek is barely back from a successful battle on the Persian front. So, of course, they have both been invited. And, of course, it is not an invitation they can refuse, as Peter has stressed it several times this morning as Derek was painting his face red, getting ready to parade through the streets of Athens as the new Hellenic Victor. The parade lasted all morning and afternoon, everybody wanting a glimpse, if not a grope, at the heroic general. With no consideration for the general in question who, as the parade dragged on, almost longed for a good fight with some feral Persians soldiers. Now that Derek is standing in the Emperator’s palace, red paint still on his face, red wine in his cup, and he feels like an idiot. 

"Victor!" 

The overly cheerful tone belongs to Peter, who looks as suspiciously joyful as usual. He's probably plotting the death of his current opponent. He's never been condemned, but Derek knows a killer when he sees one, and he doesn't need to be up on the latest politics to know his uncle is up to no good. Derek breathes deep, braces himself. 

"Ready to pick a new mate?"

Derek barely cringes but Peter doesn't miss it and cackles. He never pass an occasion to remind Derek of his disastrous choices in women. Derek often regrets having Peter be his only relative left, but he knows he brought it on himself. 

"You will need to. You're the only bachelor who hasn't benefited from Deucalion's generosity in the past years."

Derek grunts, but he knows Peter is right. Last time he chose a mate at it, she had turned out to be an evil Gallic druid bent on Athens's destruction, so he managed to skip his turn two times in a row. He cannot afford it this year. He is in favor, for now, but Deucalion is not someone who takes rebukes lightly. So he nods and forces himself to move from his spot. The women are easily identifiable in the crowd: they are basically naked, transparent white togas moving with their every move, gold shackles linked by a chain at their ankles restraining them. They are serving wine and food to the men chatting. Well, the guests are not all male: Derek spots a woman he knows and like, the poetess Sapho. Last he heard she was enjoying life on Lesbos, but she might be paying the capital a visit just for the occasion. The Picking is a big social event for the higher-class, a way to gauge who is in favor or not, but the guests present are not the only one avidly expecting to know who will pick which woman. The poorer classes will be discussing with great interest, and probably some envy, the accounts of tonight’s ceremony. They are always looking for more excuses to gossip, and Deucalion is always happy to oblige: following the good old axiom,  _panem et circenses._  


 

Derek has stilted conversations with a few military officials he knows, but the real soldiers he respects are all campaigning at the moment. Only the old generals stay in Athens year long. Finally, Sapho approaches him. 

"The grapevine has it you must pick a mate tonight?"

Derek sighs heavily. 

"Good day to you too, Sapho."

His lack of denial is proof enough and Sapho smiles softly. 

"Have you... looked at your choices?" she asks. 

Derek nods. He has. There are the old and ugly ones that have been here for a while, the purely political hostages. He remembers some from two years before, the last time he attended the Picking. Last year he was conveniently killing barbars on the Persian front he just came back from. 

"No one caught my eye," he admits. For lack of a better option, he might choose Melissa McCall. Scott has become a great lieutenant and soldier, straight from their recently conquered, most northern territories, and it might cement Scott’s sometimes fickle allegiance to have his alpha married to his mother. Having followed his gaze, Sappho comments:

"A good diplomatic choice. Clearly you won't truly mate her, but it would satisfy everyone."

"Scott would be pleased."

"Surely. What about you, though?"

Derek shrugs, a Gallic gesture he learned from Scott, actually. Sappho still gets what he means. 

"Have you looked at this girl?" she points to a woman who is slightly hanging back. She is nothing extraordinary, beauty-wise. Deucalion usually has more taste, but maybe she is a princess of some type. She is also obviously foreign: tall and lanky, very pale with numerous moles, more moles than Derek has ever seen on someone before. It is enticing in a bizarre way, the patterns he can guess under the transparent fabric. 

"Pretty, right?" 

"Strange."

Sappho laughs. 

"Clever too," she ads. "I've been observing her: she seems to be active like the others but hasn't served anyone any wine yet, hasn't made eye contact with a single man among the guests. She's trying not to get picked."

Derek would gladly let her be, but something has caught his eyes, beyond the exotic looks of her. It is the way she moves, he realizes at last, extremely aware of her surroundings, ready to break into a run or fight despite the shackles. 

"A soldier," he realizes aloud. 

Sappho only has time to make a surprised face before Deucalion finally makes his grand entrance, in a deep purple toga, Kali half shifted on his arm, looking as feral as ever. A few guests recoil upon hearing her naked clawed feet click on the ground. Derek can't blame them: her scent is full of anger and aggression. The humans are equally informed of her mood by the snarl on her face. 

"My friends! I hope you have been enjoying the food and drinks."

Polite ascent rises from the crowd. 

"Now comes the Picking! Who is in need of a wife today?" 

The way Deucalion smiles at the word 'wife' makes it sounds more like 'sex slave,' and Derek raises his hand feeling like he is being led to the stake. 

"Our Victor! Very good. Would you deem it a just recompense for your successes on the East front?"

  
_Killing two birds with one stone_ , reflects Derek, but it doesn't bother him. He already had to do the parading thing this morning, and it will spare him another painful reception.

"Of course, Imperator."

Deucalion gestures for the potential wives to line up. The guests gather behind Deucalion and silence falls on the room as Derek stands in front of his choices. His eyes linger on Melissa, but finally stop on the mysterious woman Sapho pointed him to. Her eyes are cast downward, her neck subtly bared, the image of submission, and Derek realizes she knows werewolves well enough, that probably her people has some in their midst.

"You," he growls, "what's your name?"

Brown eyes jump to his face, and a bit of fear sours her scent, but she remains very calm. She tilts her head, but stay silent. A guard comes forward:

"She doesn't speak our language, Victor," he respectfully explains.

"Very well," Derek grabs his sword from the guard, and there's a second where everyone holds their breath while guards start running to him, but Deucalion simply raises his hand, and Derek suspects he knows exactly what the woman is. The woman is startled, her big brown eyes tracing Derek's every move. So when Derek throws the sword, she catches it easily by the handle and reflexively adopts a fighting stance. A second later she forcefully relaxes and glares at Derek, knowing she has been tricked. A murmur runs in the crowd and Derek turns to Deucalion. 

"Can I fight my future wife, Imperator?"

Peter starts protesting, but Deucalion chuckles and gestures for another guard to give Derek a weapon.

"You have a good eye, Victor, she's a shield maiden."

Derek is not familiar with the North front, but he knows the people up there are fierce warriors, and that women go into battle alongside men. And the woman may not speak their language, but she knows when a fight is up, as she crouches slightly, ready to attack. They circle each other, and the guests and harem form an arena around them. _Bread and circuses_ , thinks Derek again. Peter doesn't look too happy, but, hey, at least now people will have something to talk about.

Derek can immediately tell she is a good fighter. The way she moves is sure and easy, a fluid grace no werewolves could achieve. He attacks first, because he is confident he will win anyway. They exchange a few fast blows, the swords clanking loudly, and she immediately proves ruthless and sneaky, throwing in kicks and punches when they work better than the sword. Once or twice, only Derek’s heightened reflexes keep him safe from harm. Time seems to stretch, but it is only a moment later when Derek wins, with his favorite move too: he grabs the sword she is yielding by the blade, uncaring of the pain as he yanks her close enough to circle her throat with his other hand, his own sword dropped to the ground. She immediately goes limp in surrender, confirming for Derek that she knows werewolves very well, probably even from training with them. Applause and bravos rise from the crowd, like it had been programmed entertainment, and Derek can’t shake off the feeling that it was easy, a bit too easy if he is honest with himself. Sure, the woman is shackled at the ankles, but she tried to trip _him_ with the chain, so it had not seemed such a problem. 

Still, he is holding her by the throat, and she is submitting, so he howls his best alpha battle cry, eyes flashing red, before releasing her. Derek then turns to Deucalion. 

"I choose the shield maiden as my prize."

Kali looks delighted and hoots as loud as the others. Deucalion politely claps and inclines his head. 

"I grant you your choice, Victor. I wish you... a long and fruitful union." 

It is the dedicated idiom, and Derek keeps himself from rolling his eyes at the irony in the Imperator's voice. He hands back the two swords to the guards, and offers his hand to the woman, who is breathing quick from the exercise, sweat carrying her heady scent of pine and summer storm to Derek's nostrils. She looks at him, for a long while, like it is up to her whether to accept his offer. Derek does not know what she reads in his eyes, but she sighs softly, and takes his hand. 


	3. An offer

The party winds down pretty quickly after that, a few people feeling obliged to congratulate Derek, without quite knowing if they should. Then Derek, the woman, and Peter leave, walking back to their estate with a fully armed escort. Proof, if Derek needed one, that his uncle is in the midst of some scheming. Soon they are standing in the patio, and Peter is leaving for his apartments. 

"Good night, my nephew," he leers. 

Derek grumbles: "You know I won't bed her."

"Do I really? You did always like them murderous."

With that last quip that has Derek entrails go cold, Peter is gone. Derek is not sure how long he stands there, shame, guilt and anger rolling in his guts, before a contact brings him back. It's the shield maiden, one hand on his shoulder, looking... concerned? Derek brushes her hand off with a snort. He reached new levels of pathetic if even sex slaves abducted from their homes feel bad for him. 

But the woman is not easily deterred. She offers her hand again, palm up, mimicking Derek's earlier gesture. Derek hesitates for a second. He does not want to owe anyone anything, neither have people owing him, but it is too late, isn't it? Now he has an unwanted wife he is responsible for. He takes her hand. It is not soft like women's hands usually are. It is rough and callused, because she is human and a soldier. Derek's hands are actually probably softer than her since he has not touched a sword in a few days. With werewolf healing, the calluses only stay if he trains daily. 

Slowly, he leads her to his chambers, makes sure she has a clean and empty room for herself. Since the fire, there's no lack of empty rooms in the _domina_ and Derek tries not to think about how it used to be Cora's room. 

"It's yours now." He points to the bed, the chest along the wall, the table, the chair and the bowl that doesn't hold water for now. 

"You can sleep and do whatever you want. Just don't go out of the house."

Derek is not sure she understands, but it is not like she could escape anyway: there are guards patrolling the garden and at every door. He knows she spotted them, she is clever. After saying he will come back with water and food, Derek makes a quick run for the kitchen, grabbing bread, fruits and a bit of cured meat, as well as a jug of water. As he carries them back to the bedroom, he cannot help but wonder what he got into. 

 

The thought echoes particularly loudly when he steps in the room and the woman is fully naked, waiting for him on the bed, legs open. Derek feels his mouth dry and water spills out of the jug before he comes back to his senses and puts it down, along with the food, on the table. She is… different. Her pale skin is punctuated with moles, the black dots drawing enticing paths leading along the curves of her body. She is toned, like no woman Derek has ever been with, muscles clearly defined by the light spilling from the window. He spots more than a few scars, and something about it is strangely fascinating. The strength of the Hellenic army comes from the fact that almost only werewolves fight in it, so he is not familiar with the patterns skin draw when scarring.

Suddenly, the woman shivers as a breeze comes in the window, and Derek snaps out of his staring. The wind is carrying her scent towards him, so he breathes in, slow and purposeful, while she keeps looking at him coolly, her face expressionless, unmoving. She smells good, he’ll give her that, sweet and sharp at the same time, like pines in a storm. She is obviously offering herself, but she is not baring her throat, he realizes. If she has been raised in a pack, she probably cannot bring herself to submit to another alpha, especially an enemy. He reads tension in her body, nervousness in her scent, and, most importantly, she is not aroused in the slightest. 

He groans, feeling weary, and rubs a hand on his face. Maybe she thinks she owes him, and only has her body to repay the debt. Maybe she is trying to seduce him, to bind him to her wishes. Maybe she thinks that is what he expects from her and she is afraid he will be violent if not. Maybe, like Judith with Holopherne, she wants to kill him as his pleasure makes him weak. 

Whatever she thinks, Derek has no intention to bed her. He slowly unties the cape attached to his armor’s shoulders. When she tenses minutely, a fresh wave of anxiety blooming in her scent, he knows he is making the right choice. He is not one to force himself on a woman, the same way he forbids his Cohort to take part in any pillages when they win over a new territory. In one slow and prudent gesture, he drapes the flowing red fabric on the woman’s body. Her amber eyes show surprise for a second, then she narrows them, suspicious. Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes, then points to the food. 

"For you."

He makes a show of tasting a bit of everything to show her it is not poisoned, then washes it with a gulp of water he drinks directly from the jug. He can feel her eyes follow his every move and that, more than her naked body, unnerves him. He slams the jug down, glances at her and catches her pondering gaze, and exits the room with one last nod. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody, and thanks for reading and commenting! Updates will be a bit slow as I am getting ready to move across the Ocean to the US! 
> 
> Please bear with me, as the story will take some unexpected turns ;)


	4. A visit

The battle orders, when they come, are a relief. It has been a month already that Derek came back in Athens, and he wants noting more than to leave already. Peter’s scheming is not unfolding as he wished it to, and he has been taking his bad mood out on Derek, taunting him about his new 'mate,' making innuendos about bedding her himself if Derek does not want her. She is an official gift from the Imperator, so Derek knows the older werewolf will most likely not act on his threats, but he still keeps the woman close to him, unwilling to have her mistreated in any way by a man Derek does not recognize. Even like that, there are days when he steps in a room just in time to stop Peter from touching her, or for Stiles to jump at him with whatever is closest to her hand. The fact that he manages to piss her off even though she cannot understand him is a testimony to Peter's skill at being despicable. He often looks like he want nothing more than to pin her where she is, keep her from being infuriating, and the smell of his want has Derek’s guts churning uncomfortably. Uncle Peter has always been the dark, odd one in the family, the one willing to bend the law and acts in the shadows for the greater good of the Hales, but now he is downright terrifying, twisted and deceiving in ways Derek cannot read anymore. For all the battles he has seen, Derek is not ashamed to admit that his uncle frightens him more, and that he has no higher wish than to flee Athens and his company.  

 

The forced inactivity is making Derek anxious, leaves him to much time to think about how empty the house is, and about his past errors. He longs for the straightforwardness of the military life, the long marches, the strain of strength against strength as he trains with his pack, the balance he reaches with a sword in his hand and a shield in the other. It is ironic that he finds his internal peace at war, but it is how it is. His… wife, for lack of a better word, seems as unhappy as he is, stuck inside the _domina_. For all that she is vocally quiet, never answering Derek’s already rare words, she is always in movement, fidgeting when she is sitting, pacing when she is standing. One day, Derek came back from an army meeting, planning the next campaigns, and found her playing in the patio with a servant. They had a ball they were throwing at each other, and Derek stepped in just in time to see it fly past his wife's hand in the fountain. It must have happened before, because the thin white toga she wore was clinging to her skin, the dark spots of her moles visible through the transparent wet fabric. Derek knew, objectively, that he found Stiles pretty. He was not expecting the heat suddenly coiling in his guts, the impulse to just reach out and touch _._ He beat a hasty retreat to his quarters, his next thought being _I don’t even know her name._  


So when the battle orders come in, Derek starts organizing his departure right away. He does not have to pack anything himself, because he has servants and very few possessions anyway, but he has someone he wants to visit. Melissa McCall has been part of Deucalion’s harem for more than five years, ensuring her son’s allegiance to the Empire. Scott is a very good lieutenant in Derek’s Cohort, the Alpha to one of its Packs and, as his general, Derek has been able to pay visits to Melissa before, to give her news from her son. Truly, he has been used as a glorified messenger pigeon, but Derek found he did not mind. He would never admit it aloud, of course, and always grumbles when Scott hands him a piece of parchment with his careful writing on it, but he feels the loss of his family too acutely still to refuse the demands of one of his bond-pack. This time, he also has himself a vested interest in visiting the woman: she will probably be able to tell him more about the young lady who is now his wife. 

 

There is a full day of waiting between the moment Derek sends the demand to the imperial house and the moment is receives an answer granting him a meeting. He loses no time then, immediately leaving for the palace. He did not take any escort with him, and he is dressed commonly, having abandoned the red of nobility for an inconspicuous brown toga tied at his shoulder and cinched at his waist by a belt. The belt only has his short dagger hanging from it. As he navigates the heated streets of the town, passing merchants carts smelling of ripe fruits, fresh fish, tanned leather, Derek notices a shadow in his wake. He knows he is under surveillance so he sticks to wide, crowded streets. He is not trying to loose his tail, but rather not to give them any opportunity to hurt or kill him in a dark empty alley to send Peter a message. He has enemies of his own, of course, but none in Athens, and he would truly dislike being nicked because of Peter’s plots for power. Thankfully the palace is close to the Hale’s  _domina_ and soon enough he is inside the coolness and safety of its marble halls. Derek states what business he has here and leaves his dagger to the guard on duty. A male servant with the subdued smell of the eunuchs escorts him to the aisle where the harem women resides. There, he is sat in a gallery surrounding a patio, where olive trees and an intricate system of ponds are providing a shaded and cool environment for Deucalion’s hostages. The women are sited at tables, eating or playing games, looking mostly bored. Some of them are sewing or embroidering, occupying themselves as they can. With a sigh, Derek reclines in the _kline_ brought for him. Servants bring another couch and a low table. Derek would have preferred regular chairs, but does not mind being treated to a nice lunch by Deucalion. Melissa arrives along with the food, and Derek stands to welcome her. With a kind smile, she gestures for him to lie down again. They exchange civilities as a servant fills their cups with wine, and start nibbling at the honey roasted chicken, served with sourdough bread dipped in a garlic, herbs and olive oil mix. When the servant has stepped back enough to give them the illusion of privacy, Melissa switches from the small talk to the reason of Derek’s visit. 

"Please tell me, Victor Hale, how is my son faring these days?"

"He is well and sends his warmest wishes. He was made lieutenant recently, after our army’s victories against the Persians."

"What an honor!"

The pleasure shown on Melissa’s face is not fake, Derek can tell because it colors her scent too, but he doubts it is honor of the promotion that gladdens her, his bet being rather on the safety the position brings her son. As usual, he regrets the formality of it all, wishing he could tell her honestly of the progress he has made and how he became an Alpha without even needing to kill, as only the strongest souls can manage. For a bitten werewolf, it is truly exceptional.

"I am honored myself to have him in my… Cohort." 

His short hesitation is enough for Melissa to understand Scott is part of his real pack now, the one that is not merely an army structure. Her face is carefully blank, only showing a polite smile, but her scent has gone bright with joy and Derek can’t help but smile in return, just a bit, to acknowledge it. She fumbles with her cup, drinks from it to regain countenance. 

"That is excellent news, and I am happy to hear it. I hope your new wife brings you similar happiness?"

Derek is not sure what shows on his face but Melissa’s tranquil half smile grows mischievous. She glances around and the eunuch assigned to their service must be a friend, because he nods ever so slightly, approaches to take the almost empty wine pitcher and goes away, leaving them with only the other harem wives around the patio. Derek has smelled no werewolves among the servants coming in, and the ones that are hostages are conveniently in a group at the opposite side of the patio, the chatter of the human ones serving interference. Derek notes for himself to never underestimate Melissa, who’s ten times more cunning than her son, who is only now getting better at strategic planning. 

"We don’t have much time." says Melissa. "Ask away, if you have questions."

Derek nods, but firstly hands her the letter Scott has written, hiding it under a piece of bread in case there are still eyes on them. 

"I would like to know her name," he starts with, and Melissa chuckles slightly. 

"Stiles."

Derek frowns at the name, but nods after repeating it, testing the strange sound of it on his tongue. It is fitting somehow, that such a foreign person shall have such a bizarre name. Without being prompted, Melissa continues.

"She is from the Northern territories, past Gaul and into the Goth territories."

Scott and her are from Gaul, and Derek asks: "Do you share her language?"

Melissa nods. "Enough that we could understand each other. She comes from a land harsher than ours, where women fight equal to men, and it is said werewolves among them can change into giant wolves, independently of their pack rank."

Derek cannot help the surprise on his face and Melissa adds: "Stiles never confirmed it, but I think it true. She is made of tough stuff."

Derek smiles at that, because he does not know his wife much, but that at least he knows. He has seen her snarl at Peter like a born wolf would have, not backing down even when Peter had grown fangs.

"Take her with you for your next campaign."

Derek snaps his attention back to Melissa. Surely she cannot be serious. But her face is worried, and her tone serious when she explains: "Stiles is too… abrasive… to last long in the city. She is a soldier before being a woman, and she does not understand the… conventions at play here."

She can see that Derek is considering it, so she ads, daring: "Also, would you trust your uncle with her?"

"You have made your point," answers Derek coldly, but he knows she speaks truth. If she stays at the Hale’s estate in his absence, Peter will either bed her by force or kill her. Or both. 

The sound of footsteps grow nearer and Melissa starts whispering, Derek resisting the urge to lean closer:

"Please take care of her, Derek. She is dear to me and I think that, in time, you could both care for each other."

She looks like she wants to add something, but there is no time anymore, and instead she says out loud: "I was very pleased and honored by your visit Victor. Please send my love back to my dear son."

Derek stands, stiff and formal, steeling himself against his inner turmoil. 

"I will gladly do so, madam."

He bows, discreetly grabbing in passing the piece of paper Melissa just dropped on the low table, and takes his leave. 

He has to pack for one more person now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still liking this story? Let me know what you think is going on, and will happen! 
> 
>  
> 
> PS: unbeta'd, so please tell me if there is any errors!


	5. A bowl of porridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some background explanations and scene setting now! And a tad bit of angst.
> 
> Btw, here's a few details about the army structure I came up with, on the model of the Roman legions:  
> \- Pack : around 40 people under the command of one Alpha, who's not only actually an alpha werewolf, but also the first ranking officer.  
> \- Century : 2 packs, under the command of a Centurion  
> \- Cohort : 6 centuries, so about 500 soldiers + affiliates (cooks, blacksmiths, doctors), under the command of a Tribune  
> \- Legion : 10 cohorts + cavalry, reserves and light troops, so about 5 500 soldiers, under the command of a Legate
> 
> To make it clearer, Pack = army structure and pack or bond-pack = the real, I-feel-it-in-my-guts pack. That's how even though Scott's a true alpha, and the Alpha of one Pack, he is part of Derek's bond-pack.  
> Also, though Derek was a Legate, and then even a General on the Persian front, he has been "demoted" to Tribune because his Cohort has a specific mission.

Watching idly out his tent, Derek enjoys the early morning. Slowly the camp is coming to life, in a lazy, unhurried way that speaks of rest in between campaigns, of semi-permanent dwellings that are not home but do not feel like the permanent movement of war. Stiles is up and about already, rekindling a fire to prepare breakfast on. Soon, emerging from the nearby tents, she is joined by the pack, and a banter made of gestures and mangled languages drifts towards Derek. 

 

It’s only been a week but Stiles... Stiles is different.

 

Since they left Athens for Corinth, where they met with Derek’s Cohort, her attitude dramatically changed. No more confusion, nor fear, taint her scent. No more anger either. Now that her scent is radiant, pine and thunder not muted anymore, only now does Derek realize how unlike herself Stiles was in Athens. The real Stiles is a smartass who never yields, but he still wouldn't exchange it back for the wary, silent one. Now she speaks, and she smiles, and she bounces around endlessly. None of it is directed at Derek, but he reminds himself that for her, he is still the enemy, an owner to a slave. She is not happy, but she is appeased. She belongs. There is no doubt anymore that she is not only a soldier, but also one used to fight amongst werewolves. She took to the mix of pack and army hierarchy like a fish to water, positioning herself as a beta and a foot soldier. Truth be told, it is slightly alarming how well she fits in the midst of Derek’s bond-pack. Erica immediately took a liking to her, though it might be because she had been the only woman in Derek's pack. Scott, because he speaks a germanic dialect close enough to hers that they understand each other, has become her immediate best friend. Derek catches her constantly talking a mile a minute with the young alpha, who is doing is best to follow, smitten in a friendly way. Boyd, usually so stern, fancies her enough that he started working on an armor for her. The Nubian is a strength of nature to be reckoned with, and the only army blacksmith who will simply not take your commission if it does not interest him, never mind that he is paid to do it. Derek suspects Erica’s dazzling smile might have helped Stiles’s case however. Even Isaac, always distrustful, is starting to warm up to her.  _She found a balance here too_ , cannot help but think Derek, before chasing the thought away.

 

Slowly, Derek turns away from the entrance to his tent, away from the appealing smell of oats and honey. As their alpha, he should be outside with them, but as their Tribune he has other matters to attend to, a Cohort to prepare for war. He also does not want to be caught staring, Erica would never let him live it down. She likes to say he is creepy, when he merely observes. Turning to the map on his table, he considers the months to come. The army sent to the Germanic front will be composed of a full legion, under the orders of Legate Ennis. He is ruthless werewolf, a Spartan brought up since birth for the army, and Derek dislikes him. He has briefly been under his orders on the Persian front, before it became Derek’s responsibility, and the werewolf is bloodthirsty, too often sacrificing soldiers for a more brilliant victory. Derek is not one to waste lives for flair. He would rather rely on strategy. Thankfully, Derek is to leave with his Cohort long before the rest of the troops. They will open the road and recruit along the way, leaving in their wake fully stocked camps and fresh recruits so that the rest of the Legion can move forward seamlessly. It also means Derek’s Cohort will be at the most risk, having to clear the path of rebels and bandits. Derek does not mind. He likes the swiftness with which a single Cohort can move, when a Legion is so slow it will take months, maybe up to a year, before they reach the moment when the war truly starts. As it is, the 500 or so men and women under is command will walk for more than five months before reaching the three Cohorts already stationed on the Germanic front. 

 

A ruffling of fabric draws Derek from his thoughts and a feminine hand drops a bowl in his field of vision, right on top of the precious map. The scent tells him it is Stiles and, with a growl, Derek grabs the bowl and puts it on the corner of the table that bears no maps, nor stylus, nor parchment. Turning to the woman, he finds her looking at the map with curiosity over her features, and incomprehension. _Has she ever seen a map before?_ wonders Derek. Gruffly, he points to the dot representing Athens, and speaks the name of the city, before pointing to where they are and saying "Corinth." Stiles is quick to catch up, and her hand hovers overs the map, drawing a line between the two city. She utters a few words in her language, her brow creasing when Derek fails to react. Raising her gaze to his, she mimes riding a horse, then walks her fingers on the line previously drawn. Derek nods: they did ride to Corinth, but not in the straight line she is drawing, since they traveled by land and not by boat. Using a thin rope made just for that, Derek starts in Athens, and curves a path to Corinth. Looking up at Stiles again, he can see the woman is thinking, her eyes jumping all over the map, considering something. Taking the rope from Derek’s hands, she ties a knot where Corinth is, Athens being the start of the rope. She then folds the rope on itself, careful to use always the same length she marked, and Derek counts in his head. Playful, Stiles glances at him, making sure Derek is following. Maybe some of Derek’s begrudging admiration for her cleverness shows, because she preens and keeps working, her hands light and skillful. She ties a knot that equals 20 days of horsehide, then another for 100 days. The map Derek has unrolled on the table is a map of the whole Empire as of last winter, with the borders a heavier black line. They probably gained a few kilometers at the East, nearing a territory that is 5 000 km wide and goes from Lusitania at the foremost West point to Assyria at the foremost East point. Stiles is probably not counting in kilometers, but when she works out the width of the Empire using her makeshift scale, her eyes go big and she blanches, before dropping the rope. Without a look for Derek, she leaves the tent, her scent turned abruptly sour with desperation. Derek sighs, painfully reminded that however well she fits in her pack, Stiles is the enemy. He looks at her stiff back as she passes the pack, ignoring their calls. He can guess in her the hopelessness of a soldier realizing her side is no match for the Hellenic Empire. 

 

Derek pours over the maps once more. Not for the first time, in the secrecy of his own mind, he curses his greedy Imperator and his wars. In the bowl, the forgotten porridge grows cold.

 


	6. The hunt

The next weeks go by slowly. Derek will be glad to reach Vindobona. 

 

The Cohort moves at a crawling 25 km a day on average. They can walk as far as 35 km on a good day day, but it is a mushy March and they encounter rain, mud and melting snow more often than planned. They also stop every week or so to rest at already existing camps or build a rudimentary one for the main train, which lower their average speed. But it is not a bad time _per se_ : they are still in safe lands, with plenty of food, and morale is good. After a few days, Derek blessedly falls back into the routine he loves so much: get up, pack, walk, eat, rest. Do it again the next day. 

He could be riding a horse, or ride in a wagon, but he likes the walking better. Riding a horse or a wagon is uncomfortable, makes the wolf itchy to run. Walking allows him to focus on his work: figuring out routes, supply chains, training routines, strategies for when they will reach their destination. Sometimes his Centurions will ride or walk alongside, and they plan together. Most of the time however, he is left to his own thoughts. Only war thoughts, of course, Tribune thoughts. He absolutely does not ponders about how nice Stiles smells every night when she joins him, sleeping at his side, her sweat from the day’s exercises pungent in the small space of the tent. He does not consider how now, after three weeks on the road, their scent must have mingled to the noses of everybody else. Of course, Derek cannot smell himself, but he knows how it is when two people share a cot, how their smell mingle. That’s how Erica and Boyd smell like, rendered more obvious by the fact that they are having sex. Not that Derek and Stiles have sex, no no, it is more like an unspoken agreement that it is nice to keep each other warm at night. They are moving up north, through Dalmatia, and it can get chilly in the spring, and Stiles is only human. Also, everybody knows she belongs to their Tribune, so they would not dare share their tent with her anyway, not even Scott who is so close to her. Scott is busy pretending he is sharing Isaac’s tent just 'because it’s practical' anyway. 

 

So during the long weeks of walking, Derek does not think about Stiles at all. That would be preposterous. He only reflects about training, the coming battles, and provision levels. If sometimes he thinks of pine and thunder, and of brown hair glowing bronze in the morning light as it is braided, it is only a trick of his tired mind. 

 

\---

 

71 days after leaving Corinth, they reach Vindobona. The Celtic city has been turned into a Hellenic camp, a base at the boarder between the strictly speaking Hellenic land, and the recently conquered Germanic provinces. It is also the boarder of Scott’s country, and Derek knows it will be hard on him, walking on the land he was born upon, fought for and lost. They will rest and train for 14 days in Vindobona, and Derek will talk to him. It is not something he does well, talking, but he knows it is necessary, the same way he knows it is necessary to give his troops a while to rest, and his depleted provisions a while to get full again. 

 

Shortly after dropping his pack, Derek calls for his Centurions, and for his Quaestor. 

 

"Victor, you called for me?"

Derek rolls his eyes as he turns to Danny, one of the only humans in his Cohort. The Egyptian is a good tactician, and the best Quaestor Derek ever worked with, able to supply an army with all the necessary food, materials and whores without angering too much the locals. 

"Quit it with the ‘Victor,’ Danny. You were with me on that bloody Persian front, you know it's not a victory when you loose half your men."

Danny only nods, as it is an argument they have already had. 

"Worried about how to provide 485 hungry stomachs with sustenance?" Danny asks. 

"You are reading my mind," deadpans Derek.

"Well, do not fear. We passed several fields in the past few days, and the soil speaks of a good crop, as do some locals when prompted. The local authority taxes grain on a percentage basis, so we should first draw in their reserves, then complete with the extra the locals have amassed."

"What about livestock."

"You werewolves and your meat…" 

Derek doesn’t answer the gibe, and Danny goes on: "Cows are abundant in the area, but so are wild boars, deers and game. We should do a bit of both." 

"Very well. It will provide some good training opportunities." 

"Speaking of that…" Danny glances around and, reassured that no one was approaching, he adds: "The harvest has been good, but not good enough that poachers and bandits are not abundant as well. The locals might be less displeased by the extra tax if we were to get rid of this problem for them." 

Of course, Derek has not seen the shadow of a criminal in two months, but then again, who would attack an entire Cohort? 

"I believe it will make for another fine training exercise," he finally answers, before dismissing Danny, not missing the small smile on the man’s lips. The Centurions are approaching, and he cannot wait to present them with those two excellent opportunities to work on stealth. 

 

\---

 

"Scott!"

The alpha is chatting with Stiles right outside the smithy, where Boyd was quick to set up his workshop. Erica, Isaac, Scott and Stiles have taken to sitting on a bench outside it when they have some free time. Scott jumps up and walk up to Derek, who is coming back from a quick ride around camp. He holds his horse’s reins as Derek jumps down. 

"Alpha, how was the ride?" 

Derek smile inwardly at the term. Scott should be calling him Tribune, but they both like alpha better.

"Good. Some decisions were made," answers Derek. "Centurion Aiden will be in charge of camp for the next few days. Centurion Ethan will lead a Pack to the East, to retrieve grain from the nearby towns and farm. You are to travel South with your Pack to do the same. Take Isaac with you."

Scott, his serious face on, nods. "What about you, alpha?" he asks.

"I will be hunting with another Pack. I’ll take Erica and Stiles with me." 

Scott nods again. He knows Derek is talking of the official army Pack, not of their bond-pack. They have been walking back towards the smithy as they talked and Boyd asks from inside: "What about me, alpha?" 

"You have your hands full at the moment. We will need those swords and shields fully repaired. 

"No gallivanting in the woods for you, Boyd!" taunts Erica. A grumble emerges from the inside of the smithy and Stiles, for whom Scott has been translating the news, laughs. She looks at Derek and mimes using a bow. Derek nods. 

"Scott, get her a bow. We will see if she is any good at it." 

Again, Scott translates, and Stiles snarks back, raising and lowering her eyebrows in a silly taunt. 

"She says…" Scott gets a bit red in the face but finishes in a monotone voice, when prompted by Derek: "She says she will beat your sexy ass at hunting, just you wait." 

Derek resists the sudden and completely inopportune urge to smile and grumbles: "Well, tell her to drag her own idiotic buttocks to the tent. She needs to pack her mess. We leave in an hour."

He then glances up to the sun’s position, and takes off, leaving his horse with Scott. Someone else can take care of it, he has to pack too. 

 

\---

 

Blood running fast in his body.

Strong feet pounding on the ground.

Ahead, something is crashing through the trees.

He runs faster, the thrill of the chase making his heart beat faster.

There is a woman beyond, a long brown braid slicing the air behind her as she runs.

Soon, he runs alongside her. Stiles, joy in her smile and scent, sharing the hunt.

He growls, she laughs, and the sounds makes him want to be the one to kill the prey, to bring it to her.

 

So he runs,

     faster still,

          feet and hands on the ground now:

the deer’s panic a beacon.

 

A jump,

a bite,

blood flooding his mouth as the prey dies.

 

He roars, and Erica’s howl answers him. It brings him back into his human body.

Letting go of the shift, Derek spits on the ground to clear his mouth. He must still have some blood on his face, because when Stiles tumbles to a stop next to him, she laughs and gestures to her own face, before handing him her water canteen. There is not a hint of fear in her scent, just exhilaration, and a bit of awe. She mimes running: "You! Very fast." 

Derek drops the canteen in his surprise, resists the urge to preen, grumbles instead: "I train." 

Stiles laughs, picks up the canteen, take a swig, then unsheathes a knife and starts skinning the deer with sure, practiced movements. Derek looks at her, and tries to smother whatever makes his guts feel funny. 

 

After three days of hunting, Derek has to admit it: Stiles is a good huntress. Unlike most werewolves, she is light on her feet, graceful and quick. She looked bothered by the bow Scott ended her at first, but Erica showed her how to use it and she only needed a bit of training before she shot a bird in flight right in the neck. When she hands Derek the bird, the wolf in him flares at having been offered game. _She does not mean it like that_ , he reminds himself as he ties the bird to his saddle. _I’m the only one with a horse to carry game until we go back to the cart._ And if every night Derek comes back with far less preys than he would usually catch, well, he was distracted by… planning, yes, for the war. Nothing to do with how relaxed and competent a certain woman looked, traipsing in the woods with a bow slung on her shoulder, the sun through the leaves playing games of light and shadows over her silhouette. 

 

Derek busies himself with training the betas in the Pack that are not yet up to par on stealth. The war to come might require scouts and small attack teams, so working on this skill set was a good idea. The bad idea was including Stiles in his own team. But it’s not like he could have foisted her on anyone else. She drives everybody crazy, what with the endless energy she has, even after weeks of mind-numbing walking. A niggling voice is whispering _Scott_ in Derek’s ear, but he ignores it. After all, Stiles is his responsibility, it is only logical she should be with him. It has nothing to do with being curious about her. After a week of hunting, as they head back to Vindobona, Derek realizes he indeed learnt more about Stiles in a few days than since she became his ‘wife.’ Now, he knows she used to be part of a bond-pack, not just a werewolf army, and that her people are nomadic. He learns all kind of small quirks the shield maiden has, like how she is clumsy when not focused, or that she likes the smell of burning leaves. She can hold still for hours when they are hunting, serious and unreadable, but she is goofy and flails a lot when relaxed. She has long fingers that are equally talented at using a knife and at braiding hair. She does Erica’s every morning. Erica likes Stiles a lot, and not sharing a language does not seem to stop them. They jabber a mix of broken Latin, spiced with Gallic and Germanic words, and by tone alone, Derek can tell they sass each other endlessly. Right now, Stiles is explains something, gesturing widely with her hunting knife, sending drops of blood from a rabbit flying everywhere, and Erica is doubled in laughter. Tomorrow they will be back at the camp, and the Pack is settling for the night quietly, people chatting around the fire, someone chopping vegetables for the stew. Derek… Derek is happy. He will admit that much, at least to himself. When he met her, Erica was, like Scott, a Gallic slave. But where Scott, a bitten wolf, had immediately been sent to the army, and treated well thanks to his mother’s status, Erica had been human, and suffering from Artemis’s disease. She had had no buyers, and ended up mucking stables for the Legion. That is where Derek found her one day, seizing, bitting on a stick so she wouldn’t bite her tongue. Derek is not sure what pushed him, but he made her a wolf. She is now one of his best soldiers, and seeing her interact with Stiles brings to Derek’s mind bittersweet memories of his own sisters, both soldiers as well. They have this same toughness about them, the kind that is the armor to a honest heart, rather than the veil on a cruel one. 

 

As they near the camp the following day, Derek cannot help but feel a bit disappointed. Soon, Stiles will go back to being the elusive woman he only sees at night, when she deigns come in his tent and lie as far as she can from him on the bed they share.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to vary a bit the narration styles, tell me if you like it!


	7. A fight, and a conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello gals & guys! The story progresses… I hope you'll like it! 
> 
> A precision: from now on, Derek's people will be called Hellens, from the Hellenic Empire. 
> 
> It does not make sense for Derek to call himself "Greco-Roman." In my uchrony, the Greek Empire never fell, just transformed, and although they speak latin, and some traits of the culture (weapons, army structure etc) have evolved to match what we know of the Roman Empire, Athens has always been and still is the capital, and they worship the Greek gods still. 
> 
> Hence the "Roman" in Greco-Roman not making sense… So I will go back and change it in the already posted chapters. I hope it's not too confusing!

"Our scouts reported bandits on the  _via hellenica_  South West from the camp, halfway to the town."

Scott intervenes:

"We caught their scent two kilometers from Vindobona yesterday night. We weren’t detected."

Derek nods and continues. "I suggest we lay a trap. A group of three, posing as merchants, will be traveling on foot with a cart. In the meantime, four groups of five will be advancing on both sides, ahead and at the back, ready to encircle the bandits."

Ethan is the other Centurion included in the discussion, and the three of them discuss details and who to send out for a moment. 

"Are you sure about sending your wife, Tribune?" finally asks Ethan

Scott lets a chuckle escape before reigning it in. Derek raises and eyebrow at his Centurion. 

"I think you’ll discover she is more than capable," he says, closing the discussion. It’s true than most of the Cohort thinks he just brought his wife along for the long cold nights, in a small abuse of his powers as Tribune. It does not sit well with Derek, especially since Stiles and him are not actually mated. He could make a statement about it, but making obvious her status would raise even more gossip and, potentially, endanger Stiles. Not every soldiers deals graciously with abstinence, even if they are free to frequent the lupanar that blossomed at the edge of the camp. Derek does not want unsavory characters to get equally unsavory ideas. He has been very clear that anyone who dared put a claw on any fellow soldier without their express consent would be teared limb to limb, but sometimes it is not enough. And that is also the reason why he will take Stiles along on that mission, she is his to protect, at least. 

\---

The following afternoon, Derek, Stiles and Erica, dressed in local clothes, head out. Derek leads the cart, filled with just enough hay to hide their weapons under. Stiles walks alongside the horse while Erica sits in the back. Derek is wearing breeches for the first time and feels uncomfortably restricted in certain… areas. Stiles is wearing a dress way longer than the standard tunica she has been wearing since they started on the road, and her feet get caught every now and then in the hem. Erica flat out refused to wear anything else than breeches, and by the way she moved in it, seemingly not minding the tightness, Derek guessed her people might allow women to wear some. Or she did not care and used to wear some anyway… Derek's usual armor has been replaced by a leather one and he feels oddly fragile, and exposed. Is this how Stiles felt the day they met, covered only by a see-through veil? Maybe, like him, she feels more comfortable in some amount of armor. He knows that Boyd and Stiles, with Scott’s help as a translator, have been working on a custom armor. Derek only asked that it would bear the red of the army standard issued gear, so that she would be recognized as an ally. He has not had the opportunity to see her wear it yet. 

\---

From one moment to the next, exactly as Erica is complaining in a low voice about being bored, a dozen men emerge from the side of the road. Derek pulls the reins to bring the horse to a stop. It’s just too many men for them to take them on by themselves. He glances at Erica, who nods slightly, and Derek howls, a rallying cry that will bring the other teams to them, as they shift. The bandits are unsettled for a second, but their leader howls in answer, shifting.  _Just our luck_ , muses Derek, watching as the werewolf’s eyes burn red. Derek is getting ready to jump at him, to strategically take down the leader, when said leader falls forward, his howl cut short. There is a bolt in his forehead and the smell of wolfsbane in the air. Stiles, a smug smile at the corner of her lips, winks at Derek before grabbing the short sword Erica is throwing at her, and jumping into the fray. Torn between the urge to smile and the one to roll his eyes, Derek follows suit.

 

_Stiles can fight._

Of course, Derek knew she could. However, seeing her cut her way through the bandits now is a different experience. She is a great warrior, way better than many soldiers of Derek’s own Cohort. Better than many werewolves. He realizes she went easy on him during the Picking.  _Why so?_  he muses as he watches her, fascinated, brush aside a bandit’s dagger and plunge her  _gladius_  in his throat. The gurgling sound of the man’s last breath brings Derek back to the present time, just in time to sidestep as an arrow swishes by his ear. With a growl, he breaks into a run, diving for the ambushed archer and wringing his neck. With a sigh, he retracts his fangs and claws. He won’t need them to deal with the pathetic excuses for highwaymen they encountered. As Derek steps out of the trees and back on the road, a glance is enough to asses the situation. Erica, partially shifted, is slicing a guy’s throat, gifting him with the swift death his gutted abdomen would have caused anyway. Scott and Isaac are rounding the surviving criminals, which are not putting up any resistance. Stiles dries her sword on a corpse’s tunic before sheathing it. She turns to him as he walks back to their cart. Derek's war horse, trained to ignore mayhem and violence, has not moved an inch. It flinches however when Stiles burst out laughing as soon as her eyes land on Derek. The ringing sound attracts the pack’s attention, and Scott lets a chuckle escape before he controls himself.  _By Hades?!_  wonders Derek, patting himself but finding nothing amiss.

"Your hair caught a few twigs, Alpha," Isaac’s voice is cool and collected, but Derek can smell the mirth on him clear as day. 

He starts brushing his short hair with his hands, and a few leaves fall off, but still his wolves’ gazes are fixed on him. 

"Here, let me…" Erica starts walking towards him, but Stiles, who is standing nearby, beats her to Derek, plucking from his hair a twig that she holds out in front of his face. For a second, everybody stop breathing, the woman way into Derek’s personal space. As both a werewolf and a soldier, Derek’s first reflex is to snarl and bite. His gaze snaps from the offending hand to his pack, and he can see Scott’s bracing himself for action, though who he would protect from whom is uncertain, and that conflict shows on his face. Derek breathes it out, slowly, and only a low growl escapes him. The intimacy of Stiles’s closeness does not feel entirely new, as they have been sharing a tent for the past 10 weeks, but the truth is they never touch in those occasions, each rolled in their own blanket, back to back. Stiles’s eyes grow wide upon hearing him growl, realizing how stupid her move was. Her heartbeat is drumming faster, irregular, as panic blooms in her scent. Her reaction makes Derek want to pounce, but he forces himself to exhale, slow and controlled, before meeting her eyes. He raises a single eyebrow and points to his own hair.

 

"Anymore twigs?"

 

Stiles’s eyes flick back and forth between his hair and his eyes and she hesitates for a second, before raising her hand again. Derek minutely inclines his head, but it’s enough. She resumes picking twigs out of it, and his pack, after Derek scowls at them, busy themselves with cleaning. He can see them exchange glances and knows there will be some talking happening in his back. Stiles’s strange status has been bothering them: contrary to the rest of the soldiers, who think their Tribune merely brought his body-slave along, they know that there is nothing happening between them. 

As Derek heads back to camp, it is another thought that haunts him however: during the whole skirmish, Stiles’s scent had never betrayed anything more than a reasonable amount of fear. Why is it then that being near him panicked her so much? Is she still thinking Derek might collect the debt she thinks she owes him? Does she hates him? No, no, her scent, her attitude, everything points to some kind of begrudging respect. But why the fear then? 

  
_Maybe it is time for that chat with Scott,_ Derek thinks. 

\---

Scott, despite his innocent eyes and his honest character, is far from stupid. Derek knows better by now than to underestimate him. So when, after talking about the specifics of crossing his native land with the Cohort, Scott turns to him and drop: "So… Stiles and you" Derek should have been ready. Still, he flinches, and Scott’s eyebrows go up into his hairline. Derek usually has a better dice face than that. 

"What about Stiles and me," grumbles Derek. 

"You tell me, Derek." 

Just like that, the older werewolf is reminded that Scott is a true alpha, and that despite the rigid army hierarchy, he is Derek’s equal and will not take is bullshit. 

"I don’t… She was married by force to me, then brought into an army she most likely fought in the past. There is nothing there, Scott."

Derek can plainly read Scott’s annoyance on his face. The boy never learned how to properly school his features. 

"Do you wish there was?" he asks. 

"I… She is… She’s something."

This time, Scott makes it extra obvious that he is rolling his eyes.

"You should hear yourself, Derek. Does it pains you so much to admit she is skillful, beautiful and smart and that she gets you hot?"

"Scott…" Derek growls, low. 

Scott does not head his warning. 

"I mean come on, with the bandits? You had hearts in your eyes, and arousal in your scent watching her fight. You were so distracted I had to intercept a guy on his way to land a blow."

Derek winces. He cannot even recall this happening, because his memories of that fight are indeed filled with Stiles in action, with the scent of her sweat when she was so close afterwards and with the shivers of his scalp as her gentle hands as she removed the twigs from his hair.

"See, you’re doing it again with the eyes, and scent!"

Derek snaps out of it. 

"I merely lust after her. It does not mean our… union should be. Soon, we will be fighting her kin. How cruel would it be of me to expect her to choose Athens over her own blood?"

"Derek… I think you feel more than lust for her, first, and second, it is her decision to make. You might be surprised. Haven’t I chose you?"

Derek wants to argue that it is not the same thing, but Scott’s parallel stands. 

"We do not even speak the same language!" he finally utters, knowing how weak an argument it is as he says it. 

Scott grins: "Who needs words when there’s a bed?"

Derek groans but Scott continues: "Stiles speaks a lot more latin now. She has taken to tell stories around the fire. You should come." 

With that, Scott heads for the entrance of the tent, but marks a pause before pulling up the drape. His worry shows as he adds: "Also, if you don’t claim her, another might, with or without her consent. She can stand her own, but if soldiers start turning out dead inside the camp, things will get messy. She is not a citizen until she truly is your wife, Derek, and you know what happens to barbars who kill Helens."

The irrational anger that flares in Derek tells him all that he had wanted to hide from himself. He will not let harm come to Stiles, that much is clear. Even if they cannot mate, she is his to protect.

 


	8. A story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott’s voice brings the ruckus of the chatting soldiers to a murmur. Everyone settles, and the silence falls.  
> "We are gathered tonight to hear of the birth of the Valkyries!"

If asked, Derek would say he wanders by the fire that night purely by duty. If he is honest with himself, Derek is curious. He caught, earlier in the day, Stiles and Scott, thick as knives, talking and gesturing. Repeating, like actors before stepping on the proscenium. He has heard soldiers planning on going too, considering the merits of it compared to a game of dice. Derek is not sure how long this story time has been going on, but long enough that bored munifexes are looking forward to the show. 

Still, he is not ready for what awaits him when, after dusk, he meanders towards the sounds of a crowd gathered around the smithy. The fire is still going on inside, spilling light through its two windows and the open door in the middle, illuminating the bench under the left window that Scott is sitting on. The first rows of soldiers are sitting cross-legged on the ground, forming a crescent, while others are using tree trunks as makeshift bleachers. Finally, like Derek himself, most of the spectators are standing farther away in the shadows. It looks like a proper show, almost, with the forge as the skene. It is only missing a space for the choir.

And Stiles. 

"Fellow soldiers, friends, wolf brothers."

Scott’s voice brings the ruckus of the chatting soldiers to a murmur. Everyone settles, and the silence falls. 

"We are gathered tonight to hear of the birth of the Valkyries."

Someone in the crowd quips "Bless you!" and Scott smiles, letting the audience chuckle, before raising his hand. Silence comes again. 

"There was once upon a time a God, and his name was Odin. He was a powerful sorcerer, wise like only madness can be. Healing and fighting were both within his powers, and War and Death were his domain. He was Odin, the Fickle, Father of those who fell on the battlefield"

This God seems like Athena and Ares united in one coin, one side the army with its strategy, its hierarchy, its Victors, and the other side of the coin the bloodthirsty, untamed and violent war, when the wolf inside takes precedence. 

Scott launches in a list of the God’s exploits; the unfamiliar names of places, events and gods rolling of his tongue, guttural but melodic. The audience is immersed in a world of deep forests and eternal snow, of tall mountains and ice cold brooks. Finally, he says:

"Now that you have heard of his many talents, let me introduce to you…"

A collective breath is drawn. The low rumble of a dozen throats resonates, and Derek, with a start, realizes that the first rows of spectators are, in fact, the orchestra. Scott, using his shield as a gong, cuts the growling short, and the soldiers exclaims, in a boom:

"Odin, the Fickle God!"

Tension is sizzling in the air, as a figure slowly emerges from the shadows to the right of the stage. The man is thin and tall, cloaked in a deep blue cape, long beard and hair made of hay, a branch in one hand like a staff, and a strange pointy hat with a brim plunging their face in the dark. Derek recognizes Isaac as he slowly comes to a stop in front of a the right window, the light of the forge’s fire dancing around him, tousled locks glinting in between the hay. Everyone is waiting for him to talk, but he smiles instead, slow and smug. Scott clanks his sword against his shield once more, and two identical grey wolves jump into the light from the crowd. Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes at his Centurions showing off their full shift. Aiden and Ethan come at Isaac’s side and the orchestra intones: 

"Geri and Freki, the Ravenous ones, the wolf-warriors!"

One of the wolf howls then, a war cry, and wolves from his bond-pack in the crowd cannot help but answer, joined in by a few others. When the howling dies out, Scott starts again: 

"Even with Geri and Freki, the Ravenous ones, by his side during the battle, Odin lost many soldiers that day. However great a God he was, Odin, the Fickle God, found himself unable to guide all the souls to Valhalla. He asked his wife Frigg, the Foreseeing Goddess, to share his burden, and indeed she led half the dead to her hall of Fólkvangr. But still, so many great warriors had died that Odin could not lead himself their deserving souls. He began looking for someone who could lead those souls in his stead. He turned to his best warriors, the Berserkers, the Wolf Warriors. However powerful they were on the battlefield, with their clanking sword, their gleaming fangs, their sharp claws, they lacked the skill to hold a soul. It was a task that needed precision, and a strength they did not possess." 

Scott stopped talking then, his tone sad, and the orchestra answered with mournful whines. As the sound echoes through the crowd, before fading, Scott lies down to the ground, and stops moving. Silence reigns once again upon the audience. Then a sharp cry of pure anguish rings through the air, and a hooded woman in a dark cloak flings herself at Scott’s body. The sadness in her voice rings so true that goosebumps erupts on Derek’s skin, and he does not need to know which language she speaks to know that the woman is grieving a loved one. The chant and the sobs decline, and the woman gets up. Slowly, with only her white arms peeking out of the cloak, she lowers her hood, revealing brown hair braided in a circle upon her head, glinting auburn in the fire light, wide amber eyes and pale skin. Speaking slowly but with confidence, an accent dancing in her words, Stiles narrates:

"After seven days, and seven nights, after all the greatest heroes had failed in the task of guiding the souls, Odin came upon the strangest scene."

She gestures at Scott, still playing dead on the ground.

"It was a woman, crying over the corpse of her dead mate. She was merely human, a tiny, meek female, and yet…"

Stiles kneels down behind Scott’s body, in front of the smithy’s door, facing the public, the dark cloak pooling around her. 

"Yet there was something fierce and powerful in her love, and when she reached for her mate one last time…" as she speaks, Stiles bends over Scott, partially hiding him under her cloak, "…his soul easily fell in her hands."

Stiles rises again, and in her hands she is holding something white. When she opens them, a panicked dove flies out, its flight a bit crooked, but the crowd sheers nonetheless. Ethan and Aiden walk to Stiles then, flanking her on each sides. Isaac comes to stand farther away at Stiles’s left, while Scott gets up and does the same on her right. When the silence is back, Isaac says: 

"The first Valkyrie was born that night!"

Scott ads:

"Soon, Odin’s Valkyries became great warriors in their own right, strong were the Berserkers were weak, their perfect complement. They would ride into battle on their Berserker mate, wearing armors of swan feather: such was their skill that not a drop of blood would stain them by the end of the battle. They knew who was worthy to live or to die, and among the dead, who should reach the Valhalla. They were the first of the shield maiden. But that, my friends, is another story…"

Stiles dramatically drops her cloak, and underneath she is wearing what indeed looks like her armor, covered in white feathers, and completed by white breeches. She brandishes her sword and yells:

"I’m a Valkyrie, a Chooser of the Slain!"

In a roar, the orchestra answers: "Valkyries, Choosers of the Slain!"

As the audience explodes in furious applauses, vivas and other bravos, Derek turns around and pushes is way through the crowd, that grew since the story began, and goes back to his tent, chased by a vision of Stiles as a murderous psychopomp, riding a giant wolf into battle in a white armor, sword blazing in the sun as she kills, the souls sticking to the blade like grey wisps of smoke. The image is gone in a flash, but leaves Derek unsettled. When Stiles comes in the tent later, he pretends to sleep, not knowing if he should congratulate her for the show or forbid her to play. 

 

In the end, Derek let Scott and Stiles do whatever they want: the unease has not left him completely since that first night, but the whole Cohort loves the shows, and everywhere he goes, Derek hears his soldiers discuss the stories with enthusiasm, wondering which part is truth and which is legend, drawing parallels with the Gods of the Hellenic Pantheon they worship. Night after night, Scott and Stiles, often aided by Isaac, Erica and Boyd, and sometimes by others, play and tell different stories. Scott is Gallic by birth but has been in contact with Germanic and Nordic people all his life: he knows a surprising number of Stiles's legends. Stiles is clearly the one that has a taste for flair and staging. Derek has to admit that the ekphrastic tales do paint a vivid image of what could be waiting for them on the other side of the border, as they head into the Northern territories. There are tales about women with prophetic vision, the völvas who can predict death and whose magic uses blood and semen. Other tales focus on the Berserkers, the warriors who can shift into wolves 'bigger than horses.’ Derek is fairly sure that half the tales are just that: tales. But a thought nags him: _what if Stiles is speaking the truth?_ He asked her directly, in a simple question, if those giant wolves existed, if she had seen any, and she said yes. Her heart was steady, no trace of a lie. But does she believes they exist, has seen them in an hallucination or in their art, or has she truly laid eyes on what might be very impressive alpha forms? Sometimes, Derek wishes he had powers of his own and could read her mind. 

 

As they get ready to break camp, Derek’s uneasiness suddenly crystallizes and he understand what has been bothering him: by entertaining them every night, Stiles has not only managed to cast her people in a positive light, but has evidenced the kinship between the Hellens and the Vikings, through shared values like pack, honor and glory. Of course, on top of that she described them as warriors both skilled and merciless, the kind for whom surrender is not an option. What weighs on Derek the most is that the picture Stiles paints might not be so far from the truth. Replace the giant wolves with horses, which he knows are abundant in nordic armies, add a few werewolves on foot or riding horses as well, and you get an opponent that is not to be trifled with. From strategic talks with Scott, whose land has been raided for decades by the Vikings before peaceful commerce was instituted, Derek also learnt that the Vikings are nomadic, and that whole packs can move relatively quickly and swiftly. This means their will be no town to lay siege to, no Trojan technics to be used. The strategist in Derek already sees the big problem: the Hellenic army’s biggest strength is that it is almost entirely made of werewolves, all heavily armed and disciplined. They are good at fighting big, slow armies, at engineering weapons that can destroy fortifications. It also means they have no cavalry worthy of the name, are used to fight werewolves only and are vulnerable when confronted to guerrilla technics, without even mentioning entire armies and villages able to break camp and move in a night like ghosts. 

 

However much he loves the army life, and needs the thrill of the fight to feel alive, Derek dislikes war in itself, the lives lost in the name of abstract concept such as religion or borders. Derek has never been happy to start a war. But it is true too that he has never been less enthusiastic that when he leads his Cohort into Germania. 


	9. The Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I moved to the US last week, and started a new job, so updates will be slow coming, sorry. Thank you for your patience! I hope you will like this chapter, which finally addresses what you all have been pestering me about ;)

It has barely been a month, and already the Cohort encounter opponents. The Germanic and Gallic people residing in the area report raids from the North. Commerce agreements have been broken, letting way to violence and pillage. The Nordics are ruthless, and many locals are willing to enroll. Derek arms and trains them, hoping their knowledge of the land will help. The Hellenic army has proven useless in detecting and stopping the raiders, because some 600 men and women marching are unable not to announce their presence. Derek hopes the Germans and the Gauls will be better at stealth than his own soldiers. To the least, they act as mediators when requisitioning food and other resources from the villages along the way. The promise of peace is working wonders on the locals’ good will to help. 

 

The weather is getting better, the mud drying into terrain fit to accommodate a marching army and their accompanying carts. Despite his worries, Derek mood also lifts up as a new easiness develops between Stiles and himself. She talks a bit more, and Derek finds her bitting wit refreshing, though he always pretend to be annoyed. He cannot ignore anymore how attracted to her he is, and sharing living quarters is becoming harder, but Derek would not trade it for the world. He gets to wake up to the sight of her brushing her hair, the rising sun lighting her hair on fire as she braids it, her hands agile and sure, her body strong despite the fragile grace of her bones. She bands her bosom in the morning too, weaving fabric around her body so she can run and jump and fight without them bouncing. Derek gets to help, sometimes, when she is still clumsy with sleep. This contact, touching the soft flesh of her breasts, grazing the gentle slope of her collarbone, have Derek’s body thrumming with the warmth of arousal, but before all the gestures are so full of trust and comfort that he is able to ignore it. She feels like pack, now. In exchange, Stiles helps him to lace his cuirass, and Derek can smell the arousal in her scent as well, just a light undercurrent, but constant. She does not act on it either, and it is for the best. Derek is not sure he could help himself from claiming her if they were to have sex. As it is, she already is the closest thing he ever had to a mate, a real mate, someone to protect and to be protected. Nor Kate nor Jennifer had been keen on caring, and even if Derek had believed for a bit that sex amounted to it, he knew better now, could tell the difference between lust and affection. 

 

The fact that he feels both for Stiles is problematic, but he would sooner keep her friendship rather than gain her body. 

 

They are camping at the edge of a forest, occupying a fallow field. A large brook is running the edge, making it a prime spot for a few days of rest and training. The new recruits need to learn some discipline. Currently, Derek is supervising Scott and Isaac's training session. They are fighting each other, showing the example to a ragtag band of Gallic and Germanic wannabe soldiers, werewolves and humans mixed. As the fight drags on, Derek becomes half convinced they are really watching preliminaries, the wolves trying to impress each other with shows of strength and dominance, while trying not to hurt each other. Derek is ready to call them on it when the first sound reaches him. It is… It is definitely a moan. When he realizes it is _Stiles's_ moan he feels himself flush. No werewolf around them has noticed yet, which means he is attuned to her, and here is a frightening thought. Derek quickly pushes it out off his mind: he also has a better hearing as an alpha, so it might be that. And 'True Alpha' Scott does not count: he is too busy trying to claw Issac's tunic off of him to pay attention. 

It would all be well if it had stopped there. But, oh no, the moans only get louder, until it is bound everyone, humans including, will notice it. The sounds she makes, by Zeus, it covers whatever sounds her partner might be doing. Hot jealousy flares in Derek's guts, and he reminds himself once more than he never claimed Stiles, that she is free to bed whomever she wants. Even if his wolf feels different about the matter. The next moan is so obviously sexual that even Isaac and Scott stop fighting. 

"Dude, is that... Stiles?!" 

Scott looks horrified at having recognized his friend's sex sounds. Derek wants to facepalm. She might not be his truly, but she still is his responsibility. It is the army, everybody is used to turning a deaf ear at night, but it is the middle of the _afternoon_. The next stream of sounds rings clear and loud, and Derek sighs, and takes off running for his tent. Because of course the asshole would invite the guy into Derek's tent. He _does_  have the best bed in all the camp. 

When Derek barges in, he is so ready to throw one of his men out by his scruff that it takes a moment to register the scene. 

 

Stiles is alone. She is naked, her hair unbraided, fanning on the bed underneath her, her back arching as she... touches herself. And yeah, Derek had sisters at some point, he knows women practice self love too. He is just… He has never _seen it_. 

Stiles's gaze catches Derek's and she unshamedly keeps moving her hand between her legs. She slowly smiles and it hits Derek: she did it in purpose, moaned loud and long enough that she knew Derek wouldn't have any other choice but to come check on her. 

"Stiles..." 

The growl escapes Derek. 

"By Hades, what are you trying to do?"

Derek knows _exactly_  what she is trying to do, and his face must talk volumes because she smiles bigger, full on smug, and opens her legs. 

"Oh no, no, no... We talked about it."

Derek can't bed her. It would mean fulfilling the last of his marital duties, sealing their union for life. It would bind her to him, to his pack, to the Hellenic army. 

Stiles makes a sad face and finally stops touching herself. She still smells enticing, and Derek is grateful for his military training. He hasn't had a woman in... in way too long, and Stiles smells divinely good, all open, wet, wanting, and ready to be taken. He takes one step forward, and she tracks the movement, before she goes in for the kill: she bares her throat, the long and pale stretch of skin calling to all of Derek's wolf in ways that he can barely resist. 

Derek drops his shield and sword and sits heavily on the furs next to her, feeling both aroused and weary. She immediately snuggles close, not in a sexual way anymore, sensing something's up with her packmate. She's such a better wolf than he is sometimes, so attuned to the instincts Derek's people try to tame so hard. 

"You know, don't you?"

Stiles make a questioning noise. 

"You know exactly what you're doing to me. You... For some reason you want to mate me. For life. Even though I'm broken, and a soldier who will likely die young, and at war with your tribe."

Derek isn't sure how much she understands, but Stiles answers with steel in her voice: "I want you. My Mate."

Then she moves, slow and deliberate. She pushes gently at Derek until he lies down, and she snuggle close, naked skin a fragile contrast on the metal plates of Derek’s cuirass. She tucks her head in his shoulder, and brings one of his hand to her belly, the the other to her nape, to the two most vulnerable spots on her body. They have shared a bed for weeks now, have helped each other dress and undress countless times: Derek knows she trusts him. But to bare herself so fully, to literally place her life in his hand? That's something else, a something that has Derek's skin breaks into goosebumps, and his heart stutter, and his gut clench. He doesn't dare move for a long while, feeling her blood pump through her body, unsure what to do. He wants to accept what she is offering. He wants to keep her in his bed night after night, at his side fight after fight. He wants to finally touch her and please her like she had been pleasing herself. He wants her to make him feel good too, to give him a purpose that is not war for the sake of war, so that he can forget all that's wrong in his past and, maybe, find redemption. 

Derek takes his hands off her body and she whines, high and sad, shying away from him, burrowing under a fur. Derek whines in return, as he gets up and start taking off his cuirass, struggling with the laces. He's only wearing his tunica and a loincloth underneath, and makes quick work of the whole of it. He sweaty and tired, and the heat inside the tent that has been sitting under the sun all day is nearly unbearable. But it does not matter much, because she is looking at him again, her head peeking from underneath the fur, hope written plainly in her eyes, and that is a more wonderful sight even than her naked body. Almost. Her naked body is really nice too, especially when she throws away the fur and beckons him on the bed. Derek lowers himself on the bed again, crawling over her. 

"Tell me, Stiles, show me... What do you want?"

It's earnest, more than he's ever been with a woman, but he needs to do right by her, not to screw it up. She smiles. « I want Derek," she answers and she takes his head in her hands, and lowers it further, until they are kissing. 

It is something Derek has not done in a long time. He never liked anyone enough after Kate, after she ruined him. His marriage with Jennifer had been purely political, they had never shared a bed. But with Stiles it feels good, natural, and she moans when he licks in her mouth, the sound doing wonderful things to Derek’s ego and arousal. They do that for a while, and Derek slowly feels himself harden as they start leisurely rubbing against each other. He is probably making noise himself, but he is too focused on her now. If his soldiers hear him, well… It is past time to make a statement, one that the whole Cohort will know about. They touch, and breathe, and kiss, and hold, and caress. He worries a mark at her collarbone, that spot that has obsessed him before. Then Derek trails his mouth down her body until he finds, between her legs, that sweet spot she was touching earlier. 

He works at it with his tongue and lips, until he makes her shout, and feels smug and accomplished. It must show on his face because she rolls her eyes, and, with a force he should know better than not suspect from her, switch their position until Derek is lying flat on his back. Stiles takes her time, explores his body. He lets her do whatever she wants. He has not been so relaxed, so very not an alpha, in a long time. He bares his throat and she preens, delicately makes a mark of her own there that he wishes would stay. She sighs as she sees it heal, touches it with her fingertips, lets it go. She looks at him in the eyes and smiles. She smells happy, aroused and content at the same time. She takes his cock in her hand and, without a sliver of hesitation, sinks on it. Zeus, she is tight. She’s tight and hot and wet, and it's good, very good, and Derek won't last long. She moves on top of him, with abandon, with easy rolls of her lithe, muscled body. She is not any kind of mate Derek's fellow generals would look for, too dominant, too strong, too foreign, but she’s perfect, she's Aphrodite's gift to Derek, and he's close, he's close... 

He must say some of that aloud, because Stiles laughs, joyful, and replaces her cunt with her hands and a few sure tugs are enough for Derek to come all over her hands and both their stomachs. She looks extra smug for all of two seconds, before yelping "Alpha!" and jumping off the bed to the water basin that is in the tent, scrubing off his sperm in haste. Derek laughs: it is well known that alpha seed is more likely to give a pup, and a war camp is definitely not a place he would want to start a family of his own. Stiles cuts his laughing by throwing a wet rag at him before getting back to cleaning herself, now moving to her crotch. There is something strangely more intimate in watching her do that than in watching her ride him, Derek thinks as he towels himself. When she is clean, Stile hesitates at the foot of the bed, but Derek then rolls on the side, leaving a space for her to join him. He is not in a hurry to get outside and see who won which bet about Stiles and him. Now that his senses are not focused solely on Stiles anymore, he can hear Erica lewdly commenting their mating for Boyd’s benefit, the blacksmith having apparently not heard a thing over the sound of shaping metal on the anvil.

 

So, for a moment more, he holds her close, basks in her smell, and lets himself be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me how you liked this chapter and what you are expecting next! I have the main plot decided, but I like to take into account your suggestions :D


	10. A sense of wonder

As Scott, Isaac, and Stiles tread up the muddy hillside in front of him, Derek cannot help but wonder what he is doing there again, far from the Cohort. Except he knows exactly what he is doing: he could not let his mate go on a dangerous mission without him.

 

As their relationship became official, Derek has been free to listen to her counsel more openly. Stiles is a great strategist, and an acute observer. She became convinced that at least part of the raiders were part of her clan. She recognized their attacks’ patterns for being her own, and argued that she knew their chief very well, and that he would not be raiding in the first place if something was not pushing him to move South. Derek was not sure she was entirely right, knew better than most that sometimes cruelty could be gratuitous, but he was inclined to hear her out. When Stiles suggested going in front, finding the leaders to treat with them, Derek had to recognized it was not an entirely bad idea, even if it was a dangerous mission. So of course she volunteered for it. And Zeus forbid Derek even suggested she could not go. Maybe she was human, and a woman, but she rolled her eyes at any suggestion of her weakness, and shut every argument by rightfully noting that she was the only one to speak any type of Nordic language anyway. Scott was good, she said, but would mess up the fine subtleties of negotiation. 

 

So that is why Derek and part of his bond-pack are trudging through dark forests and growing fields for the seventh day in a row, bobbing up and down hills, following ghost tracks that Stiles is the only one to see. If Derek did not know better - and could not detect her lies - he would think she was leading them on a goose chase. They are arguing for a stop when Scott shuts them up imperiously. Derek’s acute hearing picks it up a moment later: people, at least a half dozen, are chatting quietly in the distance. There is one more hill ahead, and Derek can hear the other group on the other side. He's glad it's only Scott, Isaac, Stiles and him, because they are silent enough, and downwind, meaning they'll have the advantage of surprise. The other party moves too fast to be on foot, but the horses must have fabric on their hooves because they are the most silent horses Derek ever heard. He tells so to the others right before they get into hearing range and... 

And Stiles goes crazy. 

Derek only has time to see her eyes widen, and then she's running up the hill, completely foregoing being sneaky. Derek growls but she's already standing on top, in sight of whoever is over there. Isaac sighs and they all scramble behind her, weapons at the ready, to save their weirdo friend. 

But then, they are over the hill and stop dead in their tracks. The other party… There are indeed six people, and four... They are definitely not horses. They are fully shifted werewolves, Derek realizes. With people riding them. Except there isn't any saddle or anything involved, and Derek almost wants to laugh, remembering how Stiles told them, again and again, through her tales, of the giant wolves of the North and how shield maiden ride them into battle. Derek spots another shield maiden, her red hair braided like Stiles does, on top of a sandy wolf. The fact that Stiles is running toward them while whooping and yelling in her language clues him in… She knows them. 

Derek, Scott and Isaac approach too, but at a much more reserved path. They stop a dozen meters away and watch as Stiles slides to a stop at the feet of a slender grey wolf, mounted by an older looking man, whose tired eyes are lighting up when he recognizes Stiles. He yells her name and quickly gets to the ground, just in time to receive an armful of Stiles. She's repeating one word on a loop, and Scott inhales sharply. Derek turns to him and there's surprise and wonder on his face. 

"It's her dad!" he says. 

A shiver runs through Derek, and he hastily sheathes back his sword. It may not be too late to make a _better_  impression. Stiles is talking excitedly, gesturing to them then to herself, mining fighting along the way. Then she turns back and yells:

"Derek, Scott, Isaac! Come?"

It's not an order but they are all immediately stepping forward anyway. 

There's a brunet with a bow, on foot too, and Derek can pinpoint the exact moment Scott and Isaac spot her because they sigh in unison. Derek resists rolling his eyes, but Stiles is doing so overtly. It must the Alison she talked about, when the tales let place to battle stories, and the redhead must be Lydia, the völva, the sibyl who foresees future deaths. She looks fierce enough, especially when she jumps down her wolf and slaps Stiles before hugging her. Stiles looks delighted, so Derek reigns in his first instinct of killing her for daring hurting his mate. 

When Stiles steps out of her embrace, her father asks, in an heavily accented but understandable latin: "So, who are your friends." 

Stiles answers in her language but Scott translates in a low voice: "She said Isaac and I are werewolves, and soldiers. She's saying I'm a true alpha!" and he preens at that. "Now she's saying you're Derek, a general of the Hellenic army who..." his voice falters a moment but he continues, though embarrassed. "You got her at the sex slave event, and soon you became... Err..." a long moment passes when Scott stays mute and gets growingly red. "Scott!" Derek prompts his lieutenant. 

"She's giving way too many details about your sex life dude." 

Stiles's father's face is getting more and more pinched as she babbles on, then finishes on a flourish, pointing at Derek. 

"What did she say?!" whispers the werewolf to Scott. 

"That you are mates…" 

Stiles's father look a bit displeased at the news, but mostly glares at Stiles herself. The redhead though, is positively glowing with mischief, and leers at Derek openly before making a comment that Derek doesn't need translation to know was very likely some vulgar remark on his looks. The sandy wolf she was perched on trembles all of a sudden and shifts into a tall blond man, currently sneering and draping himself possessively on the woman’s back, who just pat him in answer, looking like she is indulging a kid his tantrum. 

When the older man gestures for them to come closer, Isaac, Scott and Derek oblige. Derek is steeling himself, trying to be ready for the no-doubt awkward conversation to come, when a scent stops him dead in his tracks. He can see one of the shifted wolves in the back now, and their scent is strangely familiar, but not enough that he recognizes it. That is, not before the wolf, in a smooth motion, jumps at him and shifts back to their human form midair. A second later, Derek has his arms full of screeching Laura, and he feels weak with wonder and surprise. Suddenly, a second weight piles on top of Laura's, and his knees give out. Soon, he is laying on the ground, and would consider being asleep and dreaming is his ribcage wasn’t crushed by the weights of his two sisters combined, fiercely hugging him and crying and yelling all at once. Derek returns the hugs and the tears, but abstains from yelling. He still has a bit of his dignity left. 

After a while, they manage to get up on their feet, and Laura gets dressed - spring is a chilly affair in these parts. Cora first explains how she escaped the fire of their _domina_ and, not knowing who had set the fire, why, and who in their family might still be alive, she had decided to flee to their house in the countryside. That’s where Laura and Peter found her, a few months later, as Derek was already gone for his first campaign. Then… Then Peter went crazy. Having proofs of his plotting, Laura confronted him about his plan to assassinate a government official. Enraged, he knifed her with a wolfsbane-coated, silver blade. Hearing her distress, Cora ran to the rescue, only to be injured herself by Peter. Peter had left them for dead, but there was one thing he did not knew: during her time at war, Laura had gained Alpha status. His attack had been so fast, the poison so potent that she had not been able to shift. She still hadn’t been able to shift, but she had had just enough energy left to reach her bedroom and grab the antidote she always carried, like all seasoned soldiers do. She managed to administrate the antidote in time to use her alpha powers to save Cora. After that, they went as far as possible as they could have. 

"And far was us!" concluded Stiles, hitting her chest before gesturing to the pack around them. 

"But that’s… How…" Derek sputters his mind catching up. Suddenly, he glares at his sisters. "Stiles meeting me. Not a coincidence, right?"

They are both making their best innocent face, but he was raised with the girls, he knows all their tells. So even officially dead, his annoying siblings manage to play matchmakers… He if was a lesser man, he would doubt his relationship with Stiles, but he knows in his guts she feels for him as strong as he does for her. A conviction reinforced when the lady in question takes his hand and places it on her heart. 

"Not random!" Stiles says to him. "But we are true, Derek, and strong. Real mates," she adds, and Derek gets goosebumps all over from hearing her use the word. He blames his overemotional state at finding out his sisters are alive and well. Laura’s eyes grow big and she squeals:

"Stiles and Derek, mates! I couldn’t have hoped for things to work out so perfectly. Aphrodite be blessed!"

Cora sighs, annoyed. "Like you didn’t made offerings exactly to that end… Bravo on your scheming working out, big sis."

Laura is opening her mouth to banter back when a big, rolling laugh stops her in her tracks. The three women, as well as most of the people nearby turn to Derek as he is laughing, and laughing, and laughing, and finding he does not care so much how he got to be where he is today, because he is reunited with his favorite women, and they are right there and he can embrace them three and let loose. 

When he manages to stop laughing, and to let go of Laura, Cora and Stiles, he turns and look at the forest, at the gently sloping hills covered in grass, at the rugged Vikings in their battle gear, at the gigantic shifted wolves walking alongside them. 

He is not sure what the future holds, but he is home. 

"Everything will be okay," he says, and, with a sense of wonder, actually believes the words for the first time in years.

 

\---

Derek sighs and sits back, not letting go of Stiles' hand. Even with all that happened since then, even with Stiles being hurt while fighting Hellenic soldiers, he still is the happiest he has been in years. He found solace in Stiles' pack. Even her father, who was not Derek's biggest fan at first (he could never blame him, seeing his record with past mates always ending with their deaths), now calls him 'son.' Their plan to get back at Peter is sound, and if it had not been for Ennis being surprisingly perceptive, they would not even have had to fight on their way to Athens. 

But it is only a minor drawback, reflects Derek. Stiles is getting better already, and will soon be healed enough to travel. They will still make it in time for the Bacchanals. 

And then, Peter will die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am now done with the first installment of this series. I already have a vague plot for Part II, but life is making it hard for me to write these days so I will take a break for now. I hope you understand! 
> 
> Kudos and comments wildly appreciated :) Tell me what you see happening next! There is space in my plot for the best ideas to be incorporated.


End file.
